


Mrs Badger's Wake

by celestialskiff



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Play, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-13
Updated: 2012-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-29 11:27:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/319387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialskiff/pseuds/celestialskiff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the same series as my other fic, <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/193794/chapters/285413">A New Shade of Red</a>. <i>Naturally Harry read the letter at once. A woman called Onora Badger had died</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Mrs Badger's Wake

**Author's Note:**

> Please note this fic contains ageplay/infantalism.

He hardly ever had work first thing in the morning, but he'd swapped a shift with someone, so he got up at the same time as Remus. He often woke up with Remus these days so it wasn't a hardship, but he was used to going back to bed as soon as Remus left. He didn't always fall asleep but he could lie for a long time at the edges of sleep, watching the light change, rubbing the silky corner of his blanket over his nose.

Today he got up and stared at himself in the mirror for too long, yawning hugely. Not really looking at himself, just in a sort of stupor. It was pointless to wash before he went out, given how dirty he would get. He put waterproof trousers that made strange squeaky noises when he walked on over his jeans, and fur-lined robes over those. He looked extremely bulky in all the layers and it made him grin.

“Has it snowed again?” he called down to Remus. “I'm prepared for anything.”

There was no response. He picked up a hat from on top of the chest of drawers and went downstairs. Remus was standing in the kitchen, a piece of cold toast in his left hand, a letter in his right. The window was open. An owl had flown in and out again. Harry noticed that it had snowed, but not much. He closed the window. Looking at Remus's face, he had a suspicion that they were both going to be late.

“Something wrong?” Harry said softly. He reached for Remus's arm, but Remus jerked it away.

“Nothing,” Remus said slowly. “Nothing important. I'm going to be late.” He paused, his expression changing. He put down the toast and the letter on top of each other on a crumby plate. He hugged Harry so suddenly Harry was startled and his body stiffened reflexively. He was only just starting to get it to relax, his hand settling on Remus's back, before Remus let him go again.

“You'll be late,” Remus said. “I'll be late—”

“That's all right,” Harry said quickly.

“No, no I need to go,” Remus said. His hands twitched by his sides. “Someone died, you see. It doesn't matter; I didn't like them much. You can read the letter.” He paused, glanced at the plate. Realised the letter was encrusted with crumbs. “Well,” he said, “I'm sure you can still read it.”

“Are you sure you're up for going out now?” Harry said quickly. There was something a bit vague about Remus's expression, like he wasn't quite concentrating on the room around him.

“Oh yes, I want to,” Remus said. He paused, put his hand on Harry's shoulder, and then took it away again. “I'll see you tonight?”

Harry wondered why it was a question: of course he would. “Yes,” Harry said. Then, desperate to say something helpful, he added, “I'll make us dinner.”

“Oh good,” Remus said. He walked to the window, glanced back at Harry, ran his hand through his hair, and disapparated. Harry carefully checked the space where he'd been in case he'd splinched himself, but he seemed to have managed perfectly well.

Naturally Harry read the letter at once. A woman called Onora Badger had died. The letter was a bit unpleasant, too, suggesting that Remus had been callous and that his behaviour was indecent. Harry crumpled it up, and then thought Remus might want to read it again, and smoothed it out. The ink had run where it had got especially buttery.

Harry washed his hands, picked up his hat, and went to work. The snow at home was a mere scattering of white, the grass barely covered, but at work, in the hills, it came well above his knees and made progress considerably slower than usual. Still, he wouldn't have swapped with Remus for his indoor job in the ministry for anything. He loved the wide, bright sky, the cold air against his face, the hard, crisp crunch of the snow.

Despite his precautions, he was soaked before mid-morning, and he ended up leaving slightly early because he didn't think he could stand his icy feet for a moment longer. He'd thought about Remus all day, wondering exactly how upset he was and what he should do, but in the hot shower he forgot about him and thought only about the wonderful warmth against his cold feet. Then he put on an old, vast Weasley jumper with a H on its chest and set about making dinner.

If he was grateful to Aunt Petunia for anything, which he was very doubtful about, he was grateful that she had taught him to cook. He had so rarely been allowed to eat what he cooked that he had not realised at the time that he was learning such valuable skills, but now he was very glad that he could produce an edible meal with a minimal amount of fuss.

There were pork chops in the fridge; he'd bought them at the weekend. He fried onions as well, and made mashed potatoes, thinking mash was a very comforting thing to eat. The kitchen windows steamed up, and the room smelt like frying. He put water on to boil for peas, and hoped Remus came home soon, before the meal was complete and he would have to fret about it getting cold.

He needn't have worried. “Oh, you did cook,” Remus said.

“Of course,” Harry said. He set the potatoes mashing themselves (of course, he'd learned some things from Molly too) and turned around to Remus. Remus was sitting at the table taking his boots off. He looked his usual self.

“I can take time off if you want me to come to the funeral with you,” Harry said. “Jack is good about that sort of thing. Or not, if you'd rather I didn't. It's up to you.”

“I'm not going to the funeral,” Remus said.

“Oh,” Harry said. He shifted his weight from foot to foot. He didn't know what to say to that. He turned back to the potatoes.

“Harry,” Remus said. “Can you leave the food to look after itself for a minute?”

He'd rather have kept his eye on the chops until they were done now, but he didn't say so. “Yeah,” he said, turning back around.

“Come here,” Remus said, and Harry came over to him. Remus pulled Harry down onto his lap, wrapping his arms around Harry's torso. It was an awkward position; they never normally sat like this. Harry wasn't a tall man, but neither was Remus, so trying to sit on top of each other didn't work particularly well. Still, Harry didn't mind being held by Remus. He rested his head on Remus's shoulder and felt Remus drawing him closer to his chest like he couldn't quite pull Harry close enough.

“You look such a kid in this,” Remus said, fondly fingering Harry's jumper.

“Do I?” Harry said.

“Yeah, you do,” Remus said. He nuzzled at Harry's neck. His nose was very cold. “Are you even sure you're old enough to use the oven unsupervised?”

“Dunno,” Harry said. He felt confused, unsure whether he should play up to this or not. He did sort of like Remus talking to him like he was a child, and he certainly liked Remus cuddling him on the sofa and reading him a story, but that was the sort of thing they did for _him_ and he thought tonight should be for Remus.

“I think you're not,” Remus said. “Maybe I should take over from here.”

Harry had more experience with Remus's cooking than most people and said, “No, I can manage. You can supervise me if you like.”

He got out their plates (old, green, with chipped edges: Petunia wouldn't approve) and began dishing up.

“Is there mustard in the mash?” Remus said.

“No, because that's disgusting,” Harry said, “But you can put some in yours if you like.” He put a plate in front of Remus and got the mustard out of the fridge for him too.

Harry watched Remus add various condiments to his meal, not quite ready to start eating himself. He was hungry but sometimes the process of beginning to fill his body with bits of meat and slices of vegetables seemed daunting and he just wanted to sit still and be hungry. Sitting still and being hungry were natural states for him: he had grown up on them.

He cut a piece off his chop. It would have been nicer, he thought, if Remus hadn't distracted him. “Are you sure you don't want to go to the funeral?” Harry said.

Remus chewed. Looked up at him. Swallowed. “Yes, quite sure,” he said. He looked back down at his plate, and Harry thought he might not say anything more, but he went on, “Mrs Badger wasn't a kind woman. She didn't like werewolves, or me. But she was the last person who really knew my parents who was still around.”

Harry didn't know what to say to that. Lots of people had known his parents; Remus, even, had known them better than Harry ever would.

“I suppose I thought I might talk to her about everyone one day,” Remus said. “But now I know I won't. I don't want to go to her funeral; there wouldn't be any point.” He stabbed at his peas.

“All right,” Harry said. He tried to think of something to say—something that would be kind and thoughtful and would make Remus smile—but he could think of nothing at all. It was snowing again outside. It was dark out, but he could see the flakes by the light of the muggle street lights, clear and bright. Remus followed his look.

“Snowing again,” he said. “Must be hell out for you.”

“I got cold,” Harry said, “But I like it. Better than being in the ministry, anyway.”

Remus's mouth twitched. “You're not wrong there,” he said. They finished dinner quietly. Harry had an apple, and Remus poured himself a firewhisky. The room was very warm and quiet, and the light was dim. Outside, the snow continued to fall, and Harry could see muggle Christmas decorations twinkling in the distance. He'd always hated the gaudy muggle decorations compared with the magical decorations at Hogwarts, but through the blur of snow they looked pretty.

Remus stood up and came round the table. He put his hand gently on Harry's shoulder. “Go upstairs,” he said. “And get into your pyjamas. Put a nappy on too. Then come down to the living room. Bring your rabbit, and your blanket, too, if you like.”

The words themselves were authoritative, but he spoke them a little nervously, like he wasn't sure how Harry would react.

Harry looked up at him. “Are you sure you want to? You don't have to.”

“I asked, didn't I?” Remus said. “Of course I want to.”

Harry nodded, but he wasn't sure quite why Remus would want to indulge him like this. The directness of Remus's words—the direct reference to a nappy—still made him blush, but at the same time it still felt strange and special to be allowed to do this, to even be encouraged to do this.

Upstairs, the bedroom was cold, and Harry quickly located the box of nappies from the bottom of the wardrobe. He stripped off his clothes, shivering slightly in the cold air. The fire wasn't lit and the snow drifted serenely past the window.

He put the nappy on carefully. It wasn't always easy to get the tabs in quite the right place, and its bulk made his legs spread strangely, but once it had been on for a few minutes he got used to the feeling and stopped noticing it. He put on the pyjamas, and a dressing gown too. It was a red one he'd had in Hogwarts, and when he examined himself in the mirror, he supposed he did look quite young in it. Younger than his age anyway.

It was hard sometimes to transition from Harry, the grown-up who made dinner, to this Harry, but this Harry was always lurking somewhere inside, too. He brought the red rabbit (she still didn't have a name) and his blanket downstairs with him. It was both shameful and nice to bring them with him. It was embarrassing to bring them downstairs cradled in his arms, but at the same time holding them was comforting and that made the embarrassment lessen.

Remus had the fire going in the living room, red and orange flames roaring against the chimney. Only magic could make such a fire appear so quickly. There were candles lit, too, but otherwise the room was dim, the firelight flickering against the walls and casting strange shadows in the corners. A child might have been scared by the shapes, but Harry wasn't a child, and he liked them. He curled up next to Remus on the sofa, and Remus smoothed his hair back from his face. Harry tucked his legs under himself and cuddled the rabbit against his chest.

“I've got you a bottle,” Remus said.

Harry looked up, surprised, and not entirely certain. Sitting on the table, almost invisible in the dim light, was a plastic bottle, one Remus had bought in a muggle shop, full of an orange liquid.

“Just pumpkin juice for now,” Remus said, following his gaze. “Is that all right?”

“Mm,” Harry said, still looking.

“Do you want me to?” Remus said. “We haven't in ages.”

“Yes,” Harry said, looking at the bottle. “Yes, all right.”

“Put your head in my lap,” Remus said, and that position didn't work, but they arranged themselves so Harry's head was nestled in the crook of Remus's arm, and the bottle was angled against his lips. Harry felt how tall he was, how far his legs reached down the sofa, and felt ridiculous. He clasped his bunny to his chest, still feeling ridiculous even as he stroked her red ear lovingly between his fingers.

Then he sucked, pressing his tongue against the teat at he did with his thumb, drawing down on the plastic. They'd used it before but it was still strange: it was small in his mouth, a lot smaller than his thumb, and only a very thin stream of liquid trickled from the bottle.

He looked up at Remus. Remus looked down at him, and Remus's face was very open, and he was regarding Harry almost fiercely. Remus put his hand on Harry's forehead, almost like he was checking for fever, and then ran his fingers over Harry's eyebrows, then down his cheeks, almost to his lips. The touch was light and strange. Harry tried sucking again, and felt his mouth coated by the thin trickle of sweet juice.

“Mine,” Remus said very softly, hand on Harry's cheek. “My Harry.”

Harry agreed, but thought he didn't need to say anything. He fixed his eyes on Remus's, and sucked softly, head in the crook of Remus's arm, sucking the bottle from Remus's hand, feeling he had allowed himself to be as vulnerable as anyone could be, more vulnerable than he was even during sex.

He didn't much like the bottle with its small, strange nipple, but the feeling that passed between them in the quiet room with its flickering firelight made it worthwhile. He sucked, and watched Remus, feeling Remus's hands on his skin, until his mouth hurt from the strange sensation, and he let go and tucked his own familiar thumb in instead, letting it rest against his palate without sucking it.

Remus stroked his cheek again. “Good boy,” he said softly. “Good boy, Harry.”

Harry sat up a bit and tucked his head into the crook of Remus's neck. He breathed in through his nose, resting the fingers that weren't occupied in his mouth gently on Remus's skin, and winding his body against Remus's. They sat silently until they both got stiff, and then they curled up side by side on the sofa and Remus put the radio on.

*

Later on, it was Christmas.

Harry didn't mind Christmas. He'd always liked it well enough. Even the Dursleys were a bit nicer over Christmas, especially when Dudley was happy with his presents, and Christmases at Hogwarts had been magical. He didn't worry too much about Christmas presents: something Quidditch-related usually pleased Ron, and Hermione left a list of books she wanted lying around from November onwards, and he could usually figure out something for Remus. He didn't mind much about anyone else. He liked the food, and this year he'd sorted things out at work so he did New Year's Eve and someone else did Christmas.

He was in a good mood, and it took him until the 23rd to work out that Remus wasn't. Remus had never been particularly cheerful around Christmas, and this year he definitely didn't seem interested in it. He even snapped at Harry when Harry suggested they put a wreath up, and he changed the station rapidly whenever a carol came on the radio, which meant they listened to endless plays on Radio 4 instead.

They'd been invited to the Burrow as they were every year, and Harry was pleased about that. The Burrow was familiar and comforting, and Christmas without it would now feel weird. He got home in the early hours of the morning of the 23rd, looking forward to a few days off. He crept upstairs, charming mud and snow off himself because he couldn't be bothered having a shower. The light was on in the bedroom, and he peered around the door. Remus was asleep, but the lamp was on. There was an empty glass of firewhiskey by the bed, and a book open on Remus's lap. Harry's bunny was on Remus's side of the bed, one of her long ears against Remus's cheek.

Harry took off his clothes as quietly as he could and crept around to his side of the bed. He reached over Remus to turn the light off, and at that point Remus stirred, shifting over to look at him.

His eyes were half-open, his face blurred with sleep. “It's Harry,” he said.

“Yes, it's me,” Harry said. He smiled at Remus's sleepy face.

Remus pulled the red rabbit down the bed towards him. “This is yours,” he said.

“Yeah, she's mine,” Harry said. “I can share though.”

“Good,” Remus said. “Good boy. I gave her a name.”

“Did you?” Harry said. He'd quite liked her being nameless.

“Ariadne,” Remus said. “She's called Ariadne.”

Harry slid over the bed and rested his head on Remus's pillow. Remus's breath smelt like whiskey, but it was warm.

“Complicated name,” he said. He groped behind him, found his special blanket, and picked it up, tucking it under his cheek. He felt, suddenly, very tired. When he came in from work he usually felt too wound up to sleep for a while, even if it had been a very long shift, but today sleep came on him suddenly.

“You...” Remus paused, sighing sleepily. He tucked the red bunny under his chin, like Harry did. “You don't have a complicated name. People remember Harry. When you leave your name will stick in my head. Everyone talks about you.”

“Yes, they do,” Harry said. “Not so much lately.” He took one of Remus's warm hands in his, lacing cold fingers with hot ones. Remus didn't like holding hands, but he didn't resist right now. “Hang on,” Harry said. “When I leave?”

“Yes,” Remus said. “When you leave.” And then he didn't say any more, because he feel asleep again as suddenly as he had woken.

Harry thought he'd stay awake after that, but he tucked his thumb comfortingly into his mouth and wound his blanket around his fist, and the combination of that and the soothing sound of Remus's breathing sent him straight to sleep.

He woke to skies so grey it might as well have stayed dark. It was starting to rain outside, and the snow was melting. He preferred snow to rain and curled into a smaller ball in the warm hollow beneath the duvet and shut his eyes. He heard Remus downstairs. Someone talking on the radio. He sat up carefully. The whisky glass had been cleared away, and Remus's side of the bed was tidy again, in contrast with Harry's. Harry searched for the red bunny to give her a quick cuddle, but she wasn't there.

He wound his special blanket around his neck. He didn't usually move it from the bed, but today it felt like a good idea. It was warm there, and provided a comforting pressure. He put his dressing-gown on over the top.

Remus was downstairs drinking coffee. He offered Harry some, but Harry had had Remus's coffee before, and he declined. The red bunny was sitting on the table between them, propped up against the salt cellar. Her nose had been bright pink, but was going slightly more grey. Harry thought it might suit her better.

“Remember when I came in last night?” Harry said.

“Yeah,” Remus said.

They were silent. Harry put his hand on the blanket. He'd meant it to be hidden by the dressing-gown but he thought it was coming out at the neck. “I don't have any plans to leave, you know,” he said. “I've told you before.”

“I know,” Remus said. “Just... When you're my age and you've lived through two wars... Well, you start to think everyone is going to leave, one way or another.”

“Oh,” Harry said. He tried not to think about Voldemort. He tried not to think about what people had gone through. He tried to look at Remus with the right amount of empathy, but he found he only felt scared because he didn't know what the right amount was. “Yeah... I can see that.”

“God, I'm sick of carols,” Remus said. He turned the radio off suddenly, even though it hadn't been playing a carol. He came around behind Harry and wrapped his arms around Harry's neck.

“Be little for me today,” Remus said. “All right?”

That was easy. Harry wanted to. But he also felt odd about it. “Yeah, all right. Why?”

“It makes you feel more permanent somehow.”

“When I'm pretending to be what I'm not?” Harry said.

“I don't think that's what you're doing,” Remus said.

Remus went upstairs with him and got him changed into a nappy with old jeans over it and one of his old knitted jumpers. The jumper was too big—so much too big that Harry wondered if it had got mixed up with one of Ron's at some point—but that made it ideal for the purpose. Remus made him porridge with brown sugar and cream, and they played several games of exploding snap. Harry lay with his head on Remus's lap, sucking his thumb and looking at the lights from Christmas trees in neighbouring houses. He wasn't really sure where the play ended and they began. He was just Harry, really, and he'd been sucking his thumb for years now. The only difference was that now Remus saw.

Later, when it stopped raining, they went out, Harry still in the same clothes, but wrapped in a long coat and well-hidden. The air was muggy after the last few days of high, cold crispness, and Harry didn't wear gloves. They looked up, but they couldn't see any stars. They just knew they were there.

*

Harry figured out early on Christmas morning that Remus wasn't coming with him to the Burrow. Remus hadn't said anything, in fact he'd even gone to the trouble of getting up before Harry and making hot chocolate (his hot chocolate was marginally better than his coffee), but he still looked miserable, and sat hunched on the bed not making proper eye contact. It was frosty again outside and Harry just wanted things to be normal.

“You're not going,” he said, so Remus wouldn't have to.

“I'm sorry. Too many people,” Remus said.

This didn't seem like a good excuse, given that Remus spent most of his time at the ministry and it was Harry who had trouble with crowds, but he didn't mention it. “I'm still going,” Harry said.

“I know,” Remus said. “Good. You should.”

“Yeah,” Harry said. He went to the window. From the way the muggles were walking, he thought there was probably black ice on the pavements. “I might fly.”

“All that way?”

“Yeah, I'd like to. Will I tell them you're ill?”

“Tell them what you like,” Remus said. “People expect me to act funny anyway.”

Harry turned back around. “The Weasleys don't,” he said.

The house felt stuffy, and Remus hunched gloomily in an arm chair. He was looking at the firewhiskey rather intensely, and Harry thought he'd start drinking it as soon as he left. Well, that was all right. Remus made no move to exchange presents, so Harry didn't give him anything either. He'd just bought books anyway.

He wrapped up in plenty of layers. It was cold today, and he'd have to fly high because the sky was reasonably clear, and it would be even colder the higher he went. It was good to get out, though. He flew so fast he thought he'd probably get to the Weasleys early instead of late, but the air against his face was exhilarating, and seeing London falling away behind him was just right. He faced forward, letting himself lose contact with the landmarks on the ground, looking only at the sky.

There was frost on the ground around the Burrow, and the windows twinkled with Christmas lights. Harry landed on the lawn and looked through the window at Mrs Weasley moving around the kitchen. For a moment he thought he might feel outside of things, might wish he had just stayed home with Remus, but then George called something to him from an upstairs window, and Harry felt at once at home, and glad to be there.

He didn't feel any urgency to go back home, and when Mrs Weasley suggested he spend the night, he almost considered it, but then he thought of Remus lying alone in bed, and he felt guilty that he'd barely thought of him all day. So he got the floo home, laden with gifts and approximately half a turkey and box full of mince pies. The house was quiet, a complete contrast to the Burrow, and cold, the embers around Harry's feet barely glowing. Remus was stretched out on the sofa, looking thin and drawn and cold. He'd clearly consumed quite a lot of whiskey, but perhaps nothing else.

Harry looked at him, and thought he should have stayed at the Burrow instead. Remus opened one eye blearily, met Harry's eyes, but didn't say anything. Remus's eyes were red-rimmed and he looked worn out, wrung out. Harry felt warm and full of food and out of place: it was wrong to feel content when Remus seemed to be suffering. He went upstairs and got the blanket off their bed and spread it over Remus. He added more turf to the fire to get a blaze going and get some of the chill out of the room, and he stood there for a while, looking at Remus in the flickering shadows. Remus was asleep again, or doing a good job of pretending to be.

He couldn't himself sleep, up alone in bed. He had the liberty now to suck his thumb as much as he pleased, and he thought he should take advantage of it after so many years of having to hide, but the thumb went sour in his mouth and his tongue was sore and burnt from Christmas pudding, and his blanket felt all wrong in his hand. He cuddled the red bunny—Ariadne? What kind of name was Ariadne?—to his chest, and stared at the black surface of the window.

When he woke, it was daylight, and Remus was sitting on the side of the bed. There was a stack of presents at the end of the bed, wrapped in bright paper covered in pirouetting reindeer, and Remus had made coffee. Harry sat up slowly. His head felt slightly muzzy, though he wasn't sure if it was from too much sleep or too little.

“Are those for me?” Harry said.

“They are,” Remus said. “I didn't have them wrapped yesterday.”

“I've got something for you,” Harry said; he had to get out of bed to find it, and it looked very small next to the pile of gifts the Weasleys had given him yesterday. He thrust it at Remus, and sat back on the bed, pulling his own things onto his lap.

The reindeer danced cheerfully over the paper: he didn't want to rip them. Then he did. There was one gift for adult Harry, and more for the Harry he could only be around Remus: crayons, a wooden train, an selection of slim books with moving illustrations, a soft elephant, blue to contrast with his red bunny.

It made Harry think of stockings full of gifts but empty of gifts for him, it made him think of only getting the worst parts of the turkey even when there was plenty to go round, it made him think of lying alone in his bed at Hogwarts, sucking his thumb, afraid to sleep. It made him think of Remus, the day before, alone in a cold room, running low on firewhiskey.

Harry crawled over the bed towards him, upsetting the elephant and the train. He pressed his face against Remus's neck. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I'm sorry.”

“Sorry?” Remus said.

He didn't know how to answer that, didn't know what, exactly, he was sorry for—he could only think of himself, alone in a cupboard, and Remus, alone the day before. So he just pressed his face against Remus's, and Remus didn't say anything, just stroked Harry's hair back from his face and put his coffee mug to one side.

Gradually Harry felt better, and he sat back on his heels, looking at Remus. Remus looked better than he had the night before, though still tired, and pensive, and a bit hung-over.

“Have you had breakfast?” Harry said.

“Not yet,” Remus said.

Harry took Remus's hand in his. He could make breakfast. And they had enough turkey for endless sandwiches. “If my rabbit's called Ariadne,” he said, “What should I name my elephant?”


End file.
